<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><channel><title>Grandparents on Sunday Evening Review</title><link>https://sundayeveningreview.com/tags/grandparents/</link><description>Recent content in Grandparents on Sunday Evening Review</description><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en-us</language><lastBuildDate>Thu, 30 Jul 2026 06:00:00 -0500</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://sundayeveningreview.com/tags/grandparents/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>Since You Asked: Surprised in Sacramento</title><link>https://sundayeveningreview.com/letters/since-you-asked-surprised-in-sacramento/</link><pubDate>Thu, 30 Jul 2026 06:00:00 -0500</pubDate><guid>https://sundayeveningreview.com/letters/since-you-asked-surprised-in-sacramento/</guid><description>&lt;p>&lt;strong>Dear Lorraine,&lt;/strong>&lt;/p>
&lt;p>Five years ago I sold the house I&amp;rsquo;d lived in for thirty-one years and moved from Pittsburgh to Sacramento to be near my son David and his family. He has two children, ages nine and six now. When I imagined it, I imagined Sunday dinners and school plays and being woven into their daily life. I imagined mattering.&lt;/p>
&lt;p>What I have is this: David calls when they need a sitter. I am there within the hour, always. I love those children with everything I have. But I am never invited to Sunday dinner. I don&amp;rsquo;t know their friends. I don&amp;rsquo;t know the rhythms of their household. I am not in the family, I think. I am available to it.&lt;/p></description></item></channel></rss>